Still Monty
by Lambent Flame
Summary: When Mr. Burns is diagnosed with behavior-altering dementia, Smithers tries to cope with losing him piece by piece as he discovers a new side to his oft callous employer and object of his affection. Rating strictly for a few scenes of casual vulgar language.
1. Chapter 1

Still Monty

 **Author Note: Don't rely on this as an accurate portrayal of dementia or any other medical matter. Frankly, if you look to any form of The Simpsons (be it TV show, comic, or fanfic) as a source of medical information, you deserve to suffer the humiliation you'd inevitably suffer if you tried to pass it off as factual.**

" _Waylon, have I told you lately how much I love you?"_

The words at first had seemed a godsend, a deluge for a man who had thirsted for decades in a drought-ridden desert. But that was a month earlier. A month before...

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Mr. Burns sat in the back of his vintage limousine, making lighthearted chitchat and trying to engage him in conversation yet seeming unconcerned that Smithers was uncharacteristically taciturn.

" _No...sir. You haven't."_

" _I do. I love your companionship, the way you've risked your life to save mine, how you make me feel like a god among men."_

" _In the spirit of reciprocation, I must say, I love you, too, Monty. More than you'll know."_

" _Ah, you are always such delightful company. In my old age, there is nothing more valuable. Not even my millions of dollars."_

" _Are you sure you're feeling well, sir?"_

Tears rolled down his nose and along his cheek as he attempted to focus on the road. C. Montgomery Burns' insouciance about his diagnosis just made his heartbreak sting that much more, as there really was no longer any denying it.

" _Mr. Smithers, I felt I should talk to you first," Dr. Hibbert had said, taking him aside to another room as Mr. Burns sat on a bed in a hospital gown and swung his legs back and forth._

" _What is it? Oh God, something's wrong, isn't it?"_

" _Yes."_

 _Sniffling, he'd said, "So how much time does he have left?"_

" _It's hard to say...it could be months, it could be years. I'm afraid he has behavioral variant frontotemporal dementia. Most people with this type of dementia live for about five years after diagnosis, but due to his extremely advanced age, he probably won't last that long."_

He pulled into Burns Manor and rounded the vehicle to open the door for him. Mr. Burns began to skip gleefully toward the gate. "No, sir!" said Smithers, running after him. "Your home is this way." He brought his arm around Mr. Burns' shoulders and guided him to the entrance of his mansion. Once inside, he took his jacket and laid it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. "What would you like to have for lunch?"

"I don't give a rat's ass."

"Why don't you start with some fruit?" he said, reaching into a nearby fruit bowl and taking an orange, which he swiftly peeled with a small paring knife and divided it into segments, which he laid out as a ring of overlapping orange wedges on a small plate and sprinkled blueberries in the center. He sat Mr. Burns at a parlor table and set the plate before him. He pulled a banana out of the fruit bowl and peeled it, taking a bite before proceeding to the bar to fix himself some stiff drinks, retrieving bottles of gin, rum, brandy, and whisky. After downing a shot of whisky, he returned to the table and resumed eating his banana as he sat beside Mr. Burns.

"You look like a harlot pleasuring a man." Smithers choked on his bite, taken aback by the frankly sexual remark. "Having a hard time swallowing, I see? I would never have expected _you_ to have any trouble with that." Mr. Burns had made inappropriately sexual remarks over the last few months, and Dr. Hibbert had told him to expect more social impropriety from him as time went on, but the specifically homosexual undertones of his comment made him feel naked.

"Just what exactly do you mean by that?"

"Word around town says you bat for the other team."

Smithers froze, too terrified to breathe. "It's not true, I swear! I'm just holding out for the right woman. I've been much too busy servicing you to spend much time dating. I mean..." he looked plaintively into Burns' eyes, "...how did you find out?"

"One of your jilted lovers paid me a visit a couple weeks ago. But I'd had my suspicions for some time, especially after you kissed me on the eve of that so-called apocalypse. It used to be that the thought of you feeling that way about me sickened and frightened me, but of late I just don't give a fuck."

"Monty...please don't cut me out of your life. I promise I won't make a move on you."

"I'm not that foolish yet. I trust you to take good care of me more than I would trust some shiftless nurse who would let me wallow in my own filth as I inevitably wither and die."

"Sir...please, don't talk that way. I'm sure it'll be a long time before that happens."

"Don't patronize me! A hundred years is a long time. I don't have a lot of time left."

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to insult you. I just said that because I really want it to be true."

"Oh, Smithers. I've had so many years...but I'd trade them all for a few more."

He got up and poured himself a shot of gin and downed it, then poured two shots of brandy and drank them down.

" _What treatments are available? Give him everything; give him the best that money can buy."_

" _Mr. Smithers...there's very little in the way of treatments."_

" _Then let's try an experimental drug, anything!"_

" _There have been some trials of using Alzheimer's drugs for FTD, but sometimes they made things worse. Other than that, there are antidepressants and antipsychotics, but as he isn't anxious and he isn't uncontrollably aggressive, I wouldn't recommend them. The risks outweigh the benefits for him."_

" _Why the hell did you spend all that time at medical school, just to stand there and tell me there's nothing you can do? There has to be something. Anything!"_

" _I'm sorry. I can't do anything for him. But you can."_

"How would you like to spend the rest of the day, Monty?"

"How about we visit a local tavern to gawk at the swains and boors and get drunk off our asses?"

"Are you sure you want to do that, sir? We did that once, and it, uh, didn't end well."

"Oh, nonsense, I would remember if we had done anything like that."

"Besides, I'm too intoxicated to drive us anywhere. Why don't we stay here and sample your extensive collection of fine wines and spirits?"

"But I want to gawk at the boozy boors. Please, Waylon." He gave a sad puppy dog look that melted Smithers' heart.

"Oh, how can I say no to you? I'll call a chauffeur to take us there." Once the chauffeur had arrived, Smithers guided Mr. Burns to the backseat and then sat beside him, bringing his arm around the head rest, maintaining a respectable distance yet smiling amorously. "It feels so strange sitting back here with you," he said. "I like it, though." He imagined they were riding on their way to prom, picturing his flirtatious self succumbing to his naughty chaperone Mr. Burns's advances and making out in the backseat.

"Smithers? ...Smithers?"

He focused his eyes on his surroundings and turned his head to respond. "Yes, Mr. Burns?"

"We're here already, you simpering Walter Mitty!"

His outburst of frustration put Smithers at ease. Mr. Burns was more oriented to their location than even he was, and he was yelling at him in his distinctive yet not overly vituperative manner. "Oh! Yes, sir. Here, let me help you out of there," he said, placing one hand on his back to guide him out and his other hand on Burns' head to protect him from hitting his head on the way out. As they entered Moe's, he turned to Mr. Burns and said, "Where do you want to sit?"

"Right there should give us a good vantage point," he said, pointing to two empty barstools at the end of the bar nearest to the door. Sitting on the adjacent stools were Barney, Homer, Lenny, and Carl. "Give me the cheapest drinks in the house."

"Two Duffs, coming up," said Moe, filling up two mugs and handing them to Smithers and Burns.

Smithers took a sip. "Mm-hmm. Aren't we just a couple of regular Joe's out on the town, eh, Mr. Burns?"

Mr. Burns gave a dubious sniff before gingerly taking a small sip. He grimaced. "Ugh. What swill. And look, Smithers! Those corpulent lummoxes are actually drinking it. Why, they seem to _like_ it!"

"Heh heh, you said it, Mr. Burns!" said Homer, "Wait a minute...I think he's insulting us!"

"Yeah," said Barney. "I don't like your tone, Mr. Monopoly Man."

"And they say _I'm_ demented. I'd thought that fellow was the fattest man I'd ever seen," he said, pointing at Homer, "but you are the most hideous sack of lard I've ever laid eyes on." Smithers' stomach roiled as what he had expected and feared transpired.

"Hey, what did they ever do to you?" asked Carl.

"It's true, isn't it though, Smithers? I mean, would _you_ fuck either of them?" Smithers blushed and chuckled nervously as their jaws dropped at Burns' casual vulgarity and acknowledgement of Smithers' predilections. "Smithers, I asked you a question and you will answer me. Would you fuck either of those blubber-blobs?"

"Um...no, sir." He took a long gulp of his beer.

Moe stepped in. "Are you already hammered, Burnsie? 'Cause my bar ain't got room for freeloaders."

"No, barkeep, I assure you, I'm as dry as Death Valley."

"No one calls Barney Gumble," Barney belched, " a blubber-blob!" He stood up out of his stool and approached Burns menacingly.

Mr. Burns cowered in fear. "Smithers, fend off this anthropoid brute!"

"Stay back!" said Smithers, grabbing a bottle of wine. He smashed it over the counter, but when it shattered, the glass cut his hand up. As he fell to the floor, yelling out in pain, Barney lunged toward Mr. Burns. From the floor, Smithers tugged at Burns' foot to make him fall and caught him in his arms. "Let's get the hell out of here." Mr. Burns nodded meekly.

Once he laid Mr. Burns in the backseat of the car, Smithers sighed and said, "I told you we should've stayed home." He winced and clutched his lacerated hand. "You could've gotten really hurt. I would never have forgiven myself."

"Oh, quit your melodramatic piffle. That was quite a lark!"

"But sir, he could've killed you!"

"You worry too much, Waylon. I can handle myself."

Smithers sighed and mumbled under his breath, "If that were true, I wouldn't have a million shards of glass embedded in my hand right now." He instructed the chauffeur to take them back to Burns Manor.

" _What can I do for him? I'll do anything. Anything at all."_

" _You need to be patient and accept that he's never going to be able to modulate his behavior again. So there's no point trying to make him behave appropriately unless he's posing a danger to himself or others. He will also require increasing amounts of help performing basic personal tasks like bathing and toileting."_

" _I already help him with a lot of that, so that won't be a big deal for me."_

" _Don't take it personally if he gets irritable toward you; it's just the disease talking."_

" _I don't, and not always."_


	2. Chapter 2

Still Monty

" _You seem to really care for him, and that is the best prescription medical science can offer for now."_

"Waylon?" said Mr. Burns as he sat on a bench in his garden.

Smithers stopped tending to a nearby bird feeder and sat down next to him. "Yes?"

"You won't leave me, will you?"

"Why would I leave you?"

"When I get too old..."

"You'll never be too old for me."

"You won't want to be with me when I'm an invalid who needs you to wipe my ass like I'm an infant."

"Monty, what are you saying? You know I'll do anything for you, gladly."

"You won't resent me for wasting your youth?"

"Not a second I'm with you is wasted. The time I've spent _away_ from you was wasted time. You say you know I love you, but clearly you don't understand how I feel at all."

"Thank you. I appreciate your fidelity." He placed his hand on Smithers', then looked up and gave him a slight smile before looking away. Smithers wiped away a tear of joy at his tender gesture.

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

" _You can expect him to make unwise financial decisions, spend impulsively"_

" _He's been doing that for the last year."_

" _Realize that was just the first stage of his illness. Expect his judgment to further degrade."_

Smithers walked into the dining room with a tray of tea and cookies. "Mr. Burns? Where did you go?" He set down the tray on a nearby table and ran through the halls, trying to think of where he could've gotten to. He turned down another corridor and saw Mr. Burns walking toward the entrance of his mansion carrying Picasso's _Le Rêve._ "Sir...what are you doing?"

"The local elementary school just telephoned me, soliciting a donation of children's 'books with pictures'. I don't have any of those lying around this old place, so I thought I'd just give them some pictures."

"But sir, that's an original Picasso. It cost you 180 million dollars!"

"Don't worry, Smithers. I have lots of paintings. I won't run out any time soon. After I deliver this one, I'll give them that delightful piece." He pointed to Cézanne's _The Card Players_.

"That's not the – that one cost you 300 million!" He rushed to Mr. Burns and grabbed his shoulders from behind. "Let's set the painting down and go have our tea and cookies."

"But I have to give them the pictures. They said it would be criminal if a wealthy man like me didn't give them any. I don't want to go to prison."

"It's not a crime. And if anyone tried to arrest you, I wouldn't let them."

"We'll have tea when I get back." He shooed him away and tried to walk forward, but he was thwarted by Smithers' much greater strength, as it took very little effort to keep him from moving.

"Monty...you don't have a choice in this." Mr. Burns turned his head to face him and gave a hurt look. Smithers winced at his heart-rending expression. He adopted an affable comportment and softly massaged his shoulders. "I made your favorite kind of cookie – caramel-filled apple cider. I also made chocolate chip and oatmeal blueberry in case you were in the mood for something different." His voice cracked as he tried to keep from showing his devastation at seeing Mr. Burns in his current state. "Come on, we'll have a lovely time together." Mr. Burns sighed in defeat and shoved the painting at him as he wandered off. "No, sir, not that way," Smithers said, leaning the painting against the wall and walking briskly toward him and bringing his arm around Burns' shoulders. "The dining room is this way...sir." He led him back to the dining room and seated him. "Which cookies would you like?"

"Oh, so I get to choose what kind of cookie I want? I'm so grateful I can exercise my free will over such a piddling matter."

"I am so sorry. But I'm just looking out for your best interests. Please know I'm just doing this because I care."

"You have an awfully funny way of showing it."

"You're not the only one who's hurting, you know."

"Why would _you_ be hurting? You're the one holding me captive in my own home. How dare you keep me from choosing to come and go as I please? I will have you beaten for this insubordination!"

"I'm really sorry, sir, but you can't just go walking around carrying an original Picasso."

"And why not?"

"Because people will take advantage of you. That's not going to happen under my watch."

"You speak as if I'm some hapless old fool who needs to be babysat. I may be old, but my mind is still as sharp as a tack."

"I really wish that were true." He sniffed back a tear, then forced a smile and pleasant voice. "Now, which cookies would you like?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm sure you screwed them all up anyway."

Smithers' face fell as he served him two apple cider cookies and one each of the others. "I hope you enjoy eating them as much as I enjoyed making them for you."

"Go fuck yourself, Waylon."

He grit his teeth and stood sharply, slamming the palms of his hands on the table, rattling the ceramic plates and cups. He went into the corridor, leaned his back against the wall, and slid down to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest. Grunting in frustration, he pounded his fists against the carpet, his head hanging between his knees. After he'd tired his arms out, he reached into his jacket for a cigarette and a lighter. His cigarette lit, he took long, slow drags. Once he'd finished it, he wiped his tear-smudged glasses clean, replaced them, then lit another cigarette.

" _Try not to take it personally."_


	3. Chapter 3

Still Monty

"I want you to invest 12 million in that up and coming Union Pacific rail, so we can ship our nuclear galvanism across all the 48 states," he said to a group of executives in his office.

A young executive said, "Yes...now, about the matter of replacing the torn up radiation suits, that will cost -"

"I don't want to hear those employees' caterwauling about radiation! Why, in the 20s, I would take a spoonful of Radithor in my coffee and I was as full of vim as the young Teddy Roosevelt. Get out of my office! All of you!" As they left, he turned to Smithers. "What do you think?"

Smithers' jaw went slack. "You want my opinion?"

"Yes. And don't just tell me what I want to hear. I've seen you kiss my ass enough to tell whether you're being sincere."

"Okay, but you aren't going to like it." He put the palms of his hands on the edge of the desk behind him, leaned against it slightly, and faced Mr. Burns. "Intact radiation suits are mandatory. Investing in the railroads will do nothing to help this plant because the energy we produce doesn't travel by freight. And setting the bank on fire won't make your frozen assets liquid." He sat down on the desk and crossed his legs. "Sir, perhaps it's time you...sold the plant."

"Perhaps you're right," he said, swiveling his chair to face the window. "It's time I let the old girl go."

"I'll still get to work for you...won't I, sir?"

"Yes, of course. You _are_ under contract for the duration of my life." He turned his chair around to face Smithers again. "I have been needing you more lately, and...I would like to increase the scope of your duties."

"Anything at all."

"I want you to be available to me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Are you willing to work a 168-hour week?"

"For you? Yes, sir!"

"You will move in tomorrow, then."

" _He'll need full-time care eventually. I can give you the numbers of some care-taking agencies."_

" _I'll take care of him."_

" _Family members often make the mistake of thinking that needing outside help means they don't really care and get burned out. Don't make that mistake. You can care deeply about someone and still be out of your depth when they're in the throes of dementia."_

" _I will do whatever he needs me to."_

His last boxes of things he wanted to have with him, including his Malibu Stacy collection, his books, and his musical cast recordings, arrived while he was on the phone with one of Mr. Burns' lawyers. He motioned for the movers to bring his stuff in while he listened to the blue-haired lawyer on the line. "His condition is deteriorating, and I can't avoid it any longer...I really think it's necessary, now. Mm-hm. I understand. Thank you. We can meet here this afternoon. 2 p.m. is fine. Thanks."

"Who was that?" asked Mr. Burns, walking into the sitting room.

"Oh...um, nobody. Say, why don't we do something special tonight, like go to a fancy restaurant? It would be a shame to waste your increased appetite on my humble cooking."

"I suppose."

"There's a new bistro called _Le Petit Fromage_ opening tonight. I'm sure I can get last-minute reservations for such a prominent man as you. Their specialty is cheese, but their menu is very eclectic."

"That would be fine."

"I'll go place the calls," he said, excitedly giving his shoulders a little squeeze and stopping just short of hugging him. When he returned, he said, "Well, we have a primo spot – 6 p.m. tonight." His eyes sparkled in anticipation of some pleasant reaction from him, but Mr. Burns' eyes betrayed his apathy. "I do have some business to discuss with you. Would you please think again about giving me power of attorney? In all my years working for you, I've given you ample evidence of my trustworthiness."

"It's not that I don't trust you. But Monty Burns is an independent spirit, a man who takes direction from no one. I refuse to surrender my autonomy, to you or anyone else."

"You'll still get to make lots of decisions. And you'll still get first say about how you want to spend your money. I will only override you if I think you're being taken advantage of."

"There you go again, speaking as if I'm some doddering simpleton."

"I don't think of you that way. I'm just concerned, that's all." He laid his hand on top of Burns' and gave it a slight squeeze. "Please reconsider," he said, releasing his hand and leaving the room to unpack.

As 2 p.m. approached, he sat Mr. Burns in the TV room, then waited by the door. He let in the lawyer, and they met in the sitting room to discuss proceedings.

"First we must establish what type or types of conservatorship you want," said the lawyer. "Conservatorship of the person entails you assuming responsibility for his care and protection and to make arrangements for his meals, personal care, transportation, recreation, healthcare, and general well-being."

"Those have been my duties the last twenty years. I don't know whether we need to formalize that, as he seems perfectly comfortable to have me in that role."

"Yes, but as his judgment slips, you may need to be involved in deciding his medical treatments."

"In any event, I'm more immediately concerned about his financial security."

"For that, you'll need to file for conservatorship of the estate. Your responsibility will be to control and protect his assets, make a budget, pay the bills, and so forth."

"So how do we set this up?"

"First you'll file a petition for conservatorship and submit a doctor's statement, then someone will come by to inform Mr. Burns about the content of the petition and his legal rights, such as the right to attend the court hearing, object to conservatorship, state his preference in choice of conservator, and have an attorney." He handed Smithers a petition form. "Then you'll have the court hearing. Understand, Mr. Smithers?" Smithers stared at the petition form, not acknowledging the lawyer. "Mr. Smithers. Do you understand?"

"I can't believe this is happening. Monty has always been such a bright, vibrant spirit. Why him?"

"He _is_ **very** old. He's fortunate to have had this many years of relatively good health."

"I guess I always pictured him dying before his mind went, and us spending his last days luxuriating together, sharing our deepest feelings for each other. I guess I'll never be anything more than his caretaker, now. Don't get me wrong – I love helping him, doing whatever I can for him, unconditionally. I just wish I could've been even more to him. If I could've made him feel half as good as he makes me feel..."

"You really love him, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. I love him...more than anything. More than life. More than jewels. More than riches. More than the moon."


	4. Chapter 4

Still Monty

 **Author Note: I checked, and the lyrics quoted ahead are in public domain.**

" _If there's anything you want to tell him before he dies, the time is now."_

That evening, they were the first seated at _Le Petit Fromage._ Their table stood next to the stage, where a jazz ensemble played. The waiter brought out a bottle of fine Merlot and two small plates of artisan bread and gourmet cheeses. Mr. Burns took his wine in big gulps and ate his bread and cheese indecorously, scooping up chunks of various cheeses in his hands and gobbling them up. While the waitstaff and fellow diners sneered, Smithers smiled, still thoroughly endeared. Mr. Burns ordered a filet mignon "Hamburg sandwich" and Smithers the swordfish.

As they awaited the waiter's return, Smithers set his elbow on the table and cradled his cheek in his hand as he gazed into Mr. Burns' eyes. "I hope you have a fantastic night tonight."

The band started to play, "In the Mood," and Mr. Burns' eyes lit up. "Waylon, will you dance with me?"

"It would be my pleasure, Monty." He took his hand, and Mr. Burns led him off to the dance floor, pulling out all the stops, dancing energetically, such that Smithers, although physically more capable, struggled to keep up due to his lesser experience in swing dancing. A trio of singers began to sing:

 _Who's the loving daddy with the beautiful eyes_

 _What a pair o' shoes, I'd like to try 'em for size_

 _I'll just tell him, "Baby, won't you swing it with me"_

 _Hope he tells me maybe, what a wing it will be_

 _So, I said politely "Darling may I intrude"_

 _He said "Don't keep me waiting when I'm in the mood"_

Smithers stared adoringly into his eyes, fantasizing that Burns had romantic intent. Their dance steps became increasingly synchronized.

 _In the mood, that's what he told me_

 _In the mood, and when he told me_

 _In the mood, my heart was skipping_

 _It didn't take me long to say "I'm in the mood now"_

Mr. Burns swung him out and brought him back and spun him, his demeanor enlivened, his eyes sparkling with a long-lost zest for life.

 _In the mood for all his kissing_

 _In the mood his crazy loving_

 _In the mood what I was missing_

 _It didn't take me long to say "I'm in the mood now"_

 _So, I said politely "Darling may I intrude"_

 _He said "Don't keep me waiting when I'm in the mood"_

 _"Well" he answered "Baby, don't you know that it's rude_

 _To keep my two lips waiting when they're in the mood"_

Smithers gave him a sly smile, then switched the way he way he held Mr. Burns to the way a leader holds a follower and began leading him, taking him for a few spins. His switcheroo threw Burns a curve, so they were more evenly matched in performance.

 _First I held him lightly and we started to dance_

 _Then I held him tightly what a dreamy romance_

 _And I said "Hey, baby, it's a quarter to three_

 _It's a mess of moonlight, won't you share it with me"_

 _"Well" he answered "Baby, don't you know that it's rude_

 _To keep my two lips waiting when they're in the mood"_

Smithers swung him out, then brought him back in, tilted him and dipped him low to the ground.

"Smithers, you make me feel fifty again," he said, panting, leaning slightly into Smithers' chest out of exhaustion. Slow, sorrowful piano music began as the pianist began playing the song, "You Don't Know What Love Is." They rocked back and forth to the beat as Mr. Burns recovered his breath.

 _You don't know what love is_

 _Until you've learned the meaning of the blues_

 _Until you've loved a love you've had to lose_

 _You don't know what love is_

Smithers' pulse quickened, Burns' chest now pressed against his. Burns' head gradually sank into Smithers' shoulder, causing him to make a short, soft gasp followed by a savoring moan.

 _How could you know how lips hurt_

 _Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost_

 _Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost_

 _You don't know what love is_

They adjusted their positioning to a more formalized slow-dance position and began stepping to it instead of merely swaying. He tilted his head to look into one of Burns' anxious eyes, resisting the urge to kiss him passionately.

 _Do you know how a lost heart fears_

 _At the thought of reminiscing?_

 _And how lips that taste of tears_

 _Lose their taste for kissing_

Instead of turning him by the chin and kissing him, Smithers pressed his cheek against Burns', wetting their cheeks with the tears he shed.

 _You don't know how hearts burn_

 _For love that cannot live yet never dies_

 _Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes_

 _You don't know what love is_

Tears emerged more quickly from the corners of Smithers' eyes, the lyrics hitting too close to his heart.

"Why are you crying? I thought you wanted this."

Smithers shook his head, unable to bear the answer. He sensed this would be the last night they would connect on such an intimate level.

 _You don't know_

 _No, you'll never know_

 _What love is_

Smithers hugged him fast, then buried his lovelorn eyes in the crook of Burns' neck.

"All right, Waylon, song's over. Now get the hell off of me," he said, prying him off.

"Thank you," he said, sniffling. "You have a beautiful soul." When they sat back at their table again, he leaned forward and said earnestly, "I love you, Monty. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. I would lay my life down to save yours. I know you don't love me the same way, but that doesn't change my feelings one iota. And what I want is to protect you from harm in any way I can."

"You're a hopeless romantic, Waylon."

"Guilty as charged."

"Why in blazes do you waste your time pursuing me? Nothing will materialize of it."

"I know. I still love spending time with you, and I love helping you in any way I can. I pledge my eternal -"

"Enough of your boring professions. I _get_ it, yeesh."

"I guess it is getting a little tiresome. Just...promise me you won't ever think again that nobody loves you. Because I love you deeply, and I always will."

"I won't."

" _He may treat you harshly no matter how kind you are to him. He likely won't understand he's impaired and see your caretaking as a nuisance. Are you prepared to handle that?"_

" _Absolutely."_

"No! I do not agree to this! Get out, get out, get out! Get out, or I'll thrash you!" He flailed at the group of lawyers standing in his sitting room. "Smithers!" He looked to the doorway where Smithers still stood, having let them inside. "Smithers...how could you?" Smithers began crying, standing and staring helplessly at the even more helpless Mr. Burns.

"Mr. Burns," said the blue-haired lawyer, "you have the right to object to conservatorship -"

"Damn straight I object!"

"...as well as the right to state your preference in who will be your conservator."

"I refuse to knuckle under to my lackey's wiles."

"Monty..." said Smithers, taking a few steps forward and reaching his hand out, "please don't hate me."

He recoiled. "And why shouldn't I?"

Smithers got down on his hands and knees and prostrated himself, his lips resting on the edge of the sole at the toe of one of his shoes as he said, words muffled in leather, "Because I love you."

His eyes widened as he felt a rare pang of empathy. "I...I don't. Hate you, that is. I do care for you, Waylon."

The blue-haired lawyer cleared his throat. "Mr. Burns, if you do elect to nominate someone to act as your conservator, the court _will_ appoint them. Otherwise, the judge will decide. You do have a choice, here."

Mr. Burns got down on one knee and looked down at Smithers' pathetic face as he pried his hands from his ankles. "I choose Waylon Smithers."

Smithers took both of his hands, then stood, helping Mr. Burns right himself as he went. "Sir, I swear to uphold my oath to honor and to protect you, for as long as we both shall live."

The blue-haired lawyer said, "I don't remember anything about honoring being in there, but that's the essence of it. Sign here, Mr. Burns, and your wishes will be finalized." he handed Mr. Burns a paper to sign, and Smithers turned himself around so his back could function as a writing surface. Mr. Burns signed.

" _Just helping him enjoy his life to the extent that he is capable is one of the best things you can do for him."_

"Why don't you leave that to me, sir?" said Smithers from the entrance of the study, where by the fireplace Mr. Burns stood brushing a feather duster against the books in the bookcase. He walked toward Mr. Burns and gently grabbed his wrist, staying his hand. "Such a distinguished man as you shouldn't waste time on this peasant work."

"I need to keep cleaning it, or else the dust will pile up, and up, and up! And then, what do you get?" He paused dramatically. " _Bunnies_. And they'll eat my precious books alive!"

"I won't let that happen, sir. I'll dust all these books myself, as often as you want me to."

"Ah, but you wouldn't get _every_ nook and cranny, now would you? And I'd have to do it all over."

"But sir, you've been at it for hours! Wouldn't you rather be doing something else?"

"Why would I rather do something else?"

"I thought you might want to do something fun."

"Fun? Like what?"

"I don't know, maybe playing croquet, or having a chat by the fire, or taking a stroll through the garden...wouldn't you be happier doing something like that?"

"Happier? If you say so."

"If you insist on dusting, may I join you?"

"If you wish."

Smithers grabbed a feather duster and began dusting alongside him. "It's my pleasure." After a few minutes of silent dusting, Smithers said, "You know when I saw you really having fun?" He paused, waiting for a response, but as Burns didn't even acknowledge he had spoken, he continued, "When we went out to dinner last month. When we danced, I saw a spark ignite behind your eyes, a spark I hadn't seen in a long time." He stopped dusting and stared straight into the bookshelf as he mustered up some confidence. Reaching his arms out, he said, "Monty, will you dance with me?"

"Very well," he said, and Smithers took his hand and led Mr. Burns to the phonograph.

"Which record would you like to listen to?"

"It doesn't matter," said Mr. Burns.

"How about some Glenn Miller? He was always one of your favorites." He set the record up, and _Moonlight Serenade_ began to play. He led the dance to the slow, soulful tune. "Remember that meteor shower we saw six months ago? When I put my arm around you, I felt the flame of a thousand suns burning in my heart, and my eyes gave me away. I want you to feel that same passion – if not for me, then for the dance."

They continued to dance. Mr. Burns' eyes remained cold.

 _American Patrol_ , an uptempo piece, began to play, and they quickened their pace, but the creative and stylish moves Mr. Burns typically employed were absent, replaced by prosaic steps that slavishly followed Smithers' lead without any flourishes. As the song reached its final crescendo, Smithers took them from a swung out position and spun him, wrapping around Mr. Burns from behind, holding him tight as the song ended. "Wasn't that fabulous?" he asked as if trying to convince himself. He unraveled Mr. Burns from his arms and looked at him, smiling. " _You_ were fabulous."

"Quit your fawning. No, Waylon. I just don't have it in me to dance, tonight."

"Maybe tomorrow, then." He went to turn off the record player.

"Yes," he said, resuming his dusting. "Tomorrow."


	5. Chapter 5

Still Monty

The next morning, as Smithers brought him his freshly-squeezed orange juice and quiche lorraine on a tray, Mr. Burns said, "I used to enjoy stepping out, didn't I?"

"Yes," he said, setting the tray on his lap and draping a napkin over him to shield him from stray crumbs. "You did."

"We used to attend parties together. Why haven't we gone to any lately?"

"Well, sir, the last time we went to a party, you were kicked out after you called the host a horse-fucker."

"Oh, yes. That impudent young brat, thinks he's the cock of the walk at the AARP. He's only 52 and he has the gall to tell me I'm out of touch with the needs of today's elderly!" He sighed as he prodded his quiche with his fork in a desultory fashion. "Smithers, let's host a party."

His eyes brightened. "That's a great idea, sir! What kind of party did you have in mind?" He got out a small notebook and clicked a pen, ready to take notes.

"A dinner party would be splendid."

"Any particular caterer?"

"I don't give a fig. You make all the arrangements, and spare no expense! I want this to be the most ornate dinner party of the century."

"Yes, sir!"

That afternoon, he went to the flower shop to order floral arrangements. "I'll take two dozen of the cherry blossom vases, two dozen of the hydrangea, two white rose corsages, and your finest red rose, for next Saturday at 4 p.m."

"All right, that'll be $3183.75."

He hesitated as he began to write the check. He had written many checks from the company account, but this was the first check he would write as _Waylon Smithers, as Conservator for the Estate of Charles Montgomery Burns_. As he signed it, the inevitability of it all sank in, and he sighed deeply in heartache.

As Saturday rolled around, when not attending to Mr. Burns' every need, Smithers spent the morning and afternoon overseeing the caterers, decorators, musicians, and so forth as they set up for the party that evening. At 5 p.m., he took a break to go help Mr. Burns get ready.

As Smithers affixed one of the corsages to the breast of his tuxedo, Mr. Burns said, "I want to thank you."

He stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"Thank you, you know, that thing you do to demonstrate your appreciation of someone."

"I understand that, sir, but...what for?"

"For devoting the last twenty years of your life to me. Thank you."

He smiled and shed a tear. "I don't know what to say."

"I believe it's customary to reply, 'You're welcome.'"

"You're more than welcome to me, sir."

Sighing, he said, "You're a good man, Waylon. Too good for me."

"Nonsense. No one is too good for you." He lightly rested his hand on Mr. Burns' shoulder and said, "Now let's go get ready to greet the guests. They'll be eager to see the man of the hour."

Mr. Burns looked at him with fondness and reached a shaking hand for Smithers' wrist. He leaned in and briefly, delicately kissed the corner of Smithers' lips and let go of his wrist just as quickly.

Smithers moaned happily as his face flushed and he stopped breathing, his chest tightened and his eyes wide open. It wasn't their first kiss, but it was the first Mr. Burns had initiated, and he prayed it wouldn't be the last. His mouth hung wide open as he tried to reconfigure his senses. "Monty..." He took in a desperate gulp for air. "Monty, please...say you...say you mean this. Don't tease me! Monty..."

Then, the most bittersweet words he had ever heard: "Just a humble 'thank you,' dear friend."

"Could you...thank me more often?"

He narrowed his eyes. "We'll see." Then, his expression brightening, he said, "Now, let's go greet those guests!"

"The what? Oh, right, right. The party!"

They went to the entrance of the mansion and greeted guests as they arrived until everyone had arrived, at which point Mr. Burns decided to get up on stage to address them, Smithers following close behind, sweating profusely, as he couldn't get his mind off their kiss and his resultant giddiness was so uncontainable he feared everyone could tell what had provoked those feelings.

"Ahem," said Mr. Burns, tapping the microphone in front of him. "Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you're in the mood for a rip-roaring time! My friend Waylon Smithers has seen to the night's entertainments, so you have him to thank for the gay evening ahead of you. Dinner will be served in an hour. Now, enjoy the music!" Smithers blushed deeply. He had heard Mr. Burns address him as 'old friend' or 'dear friend' before, but he had never introduced him to others as his friend. A number of people snickered at the attribution of a gay time to him, but he didn't care. Mr. Burns was finally warming up to him, and nothing else mattered.

The musicians began to play _Sing Sing Sing_ and Mr. Burns took Smithers' hand and began dancing, as virile as he'd ever seen him. They attracted quite a few stares, both in admiration of his dancing skill and out of perplexion that he had turned first to Smithers. As the song ended, Mr. Burns collapsed into Smithers' arms, panting heavily.

"You never fail to astound me," he said, holding him securely. "You're a marvelous dancer."

"Smithers...I'm wretchedly hot."

"You don't have to tell me, sir." Mr. Burns removed his jacket, and Smithers took it, smiling. "I'll go hang this up for you." When he got back, he gasped, as Mr. Burns had already stripped to socks and underwear as the guests gaped in horror. "Mr. Burns, no!" He ran to him just as he removed his underwear. He stood there in shock.

"There. I feel much better now," said Mr. Burns with a naive smile.

"I never thought I'd say this, but please, Monty, put your clothes back on," He said, gathering up the formal wear strewn about the floor around them.

"Dance the Charleston with me, won't you, Waylon?" He didn't wait for an answer but put his arm around his back and began doing the Charleston. Smithers broke out of position to step between Mr. Burns' nude body and the guests. As he did so, he got in the way of one of Burns' kicks and fell to the floor, clutching his groin. Mr. Burns stopped dancing when he saw Smithers doubled over in front of him and got on his knees to cradle his head in his hands. "Smithers! I'm sorry. Please tell me you're okay." His display of compassion disturbed the crowd almost as much as his nudity. "Let me kiss it better." He lowered his head near to Smithers' crotch. Now his compassion disturbed the guests more than his nudity.

"Again, I never thought I'd say this, but you can't kiss me there." He guided Mr. Burns' head away from him. "Please, everyone, understand, he's not himself." He removed his jacket and tied it around Mr. Burns' waist to cover his genitalia. "Come on, let's get you to bed now."

"But I want to catch up with my friends." The guests were already leaving in droves.

"Maybe later," he said, ushering the old man to his room.

"Why are we leaving early?" he asked as they walked through the halls.

"Because they wouldn't understand."

"But I was just getting in the mood."

"So was I, sir. So was I."

"Then why...?"

"Because I need to protect you." He opened the door to Burns' bedroom and led him to his bed, tucking him in under the covers. "I'll bring you your dinner. Just sit tight." In short order, he returned with both his and Burns' dinners on a couple of trays. He gave Mr. Burns his dinner, then rested his tray on the floor.

"Why, aren't you going to eat your dinner?"

"Yes, sir. I'll eat it sitting on the floor."

"Pish-tosh! There's plenty of room here for you." He patted the bed.

"Are you sure you're okay with that?"

"Of course, friend."

He got under the covers and put the food tray on his lap. Once they'd finished eating, Mr. Burns drifted off to sleep, still nude. He turned over, draping his arm around Smithers, their fronts coming into contact. _Oh, God,_ thought Smithers, moaning. _I desperately need a cold shower._ His hand shook as he brought it around Burns' lower back. _I'm so close to getting everything I ever wanted._ He rested his hand on Burns' back but stopped short of pulling him closer. _I could have all of him at last._ He brushed his lips against Burns' and hovered there, wanting frantically to give in to the throes of passion and kiss him with unbridled enthusiasm. _No. I swore I would protect you. Even if that means protecting you from me._ He rapidly withdrew, left the bed, and ran out of the room to the nearest bathroom. _Nobody said this would be easy, Waylon._


	6. Chapter 6

Still Monty

" _Tell me, doctor. Will he...will he forget who I am?"_

" _Time will tell, but...there is memory loss near the end."_

"Waylon? Why are you still here? Go home to your wife and son. Don't make the same mistake I did, letting work become your mistress."

"Sir, I haven't had a wife in years...and I never had a -" he realized Mr. Burns thought he was his father.

"You're such a good man. Always so devoted to your family, and to me. Remember when we were meeting with Eisenhower and Joe McCarthy called you a Communist? And when you denied it, he said, 'Well, then you must be a cocksucker!'"

"Why would he think that?"

"Oh, you know Joe. To him, everyone's either a Communist or a cocksucker."

"Even you?"

"The fool thought I was both. Imagine, me sucking Stalin's cock!"

Smithers chuckled. "That is pretty absurd. May I ask what gave him that impression?"

"Something about how I'm always with you. Oh, he was furious when I pointed out I could say the same of him and Roy." He turned his head to face a window and sighed. "That Stalin fellow died a few months ago, didn't he? Makes me think...I'm getting on in years, Waylon. I may not be long for this Earth."

Smithers fought back tears. "Sir, you have many years ahead of you. And I'd be honored to spend every last one of them with you." He held Burns' hand.

"You may be too liberal for my tastes, but you're the farthest thing from a subversive. So loyal..." He feebly squeezed Smithers' hand.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Burns?"

"Yes. Give Bobo to me," he said, and Smithers affectionately tucked the bear between his hands. "I'm..." he yawned, "sleepy."

"Would you mind if I stayed here and watched?"

Mr. Burns exhaled contentedly. "You may."

Smithers sat beside his bed, watching as his chest rose and fell, his own lungs seizing up as angst over Burns' impending doom overtook him. Each inhalation of sweet, life-sustaining breath brought him closer to his inevitable and all too imminent demise. He even found himself aching for the days Burns had derogated and dismissed him. Tears welled in Smithers' eyes as he reeled at the thought of losing him. He wrapped his hand slowly around the back of Burns', giving it a slight squeeze. "I'm here, sir."

Mr. Burns opened one eye slightly and looked at him in confusion. "I thought I told you to go home to your wife and son."

"I want to watch you sleep first."

"Why?"

"Because every moment we're together is precious. I always thought I understood that, but I had no idea just how precious."

With that, Mr. Burns' head fell back into his pillow and he began to snore, fast asleep. Smithers sniffled back some tears and leaned in, kissing his forehead with the most impassioned osculation he could manage without waking him. In a jittery whisper, he said, "I love you..."

* * *

Dr. Hibbert arrived on a house call to Burns Manor, as weeks earlier, Mr. Burns' breathing had become compromised to the point of requiring him to be given a trach tube and put on a ventilator situated in his bedroom. Mr. Burns had insisted he not die in a hospital – he had come so close to doing just that on so many occasions that he knew he didn't want to go that way.

"Mr. Smithers...I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left."

"It's not fair..." Smithers' lips wobbled. "It's...just not...fair."

Dr. Hibbert patted Smithers' back in comfort. "We can set you up with a grief counselor. It might soften the blow if you start therapy before he passes."

"I can't waste a second I could be spending with him. I would never forgive myself."

"As you wish," he said. "I'll leave him to your care now." At that, he left, not one chuckle. In fact, Smithers couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Dr. Hibbert chuckle. He dared not chuckle to Smithers during such a sorrowful time.

"Come here, young man," Mr. Burns beckoned, his voice strained as the air passed through his vocal cords and the trach tube. Smithers rushed to his side and rested one palm on his chest, his hand rising and reverberating with every breath and beat of heart. He clutched at Smithers' chest. "You remind me of someone...a man I knew...he tended to me. He loved me, deeply. I never told him...I loved him...as much as I could."

"Oh, Mr. Burns...he knows, and he still loves you, more than ever!" He kissed his cheek, whimpering as he did so. "I'll always love you."

"Smithers...? Is that you?"

"Yes, Monty, it's me - Waylon Smithers, Jr. I'll do whatever you want, just tell me and I'll do it. Please, tell me what to do."

"Hold me, Smithers."

Smithers sat beside him, then lay down beside him and turned to face him. As he brought his arms around his waist, he felt Mr. Burns' body tremble. "Are you cold, sir?"

"I'm afraid."

At those words, Smithers had a powerful urge to cry, but he suppressed it. He had to be strong for both of them. "Don't be afraid," he cooed. "I'm here. I'll protect you." He stroked the skin along his rib cage, the moment devoid of eroticism. "I'll always be here for you." He buried his head in the crook of Burns' neck. "You'll never be alone again."

Mr. Burns fell asleep, and though Smithers was able to resist sleep for hours, the stress of the situation had worn down his reserves, and he drifted into an exhausted slumber. In his dreams, he recalled Mr. Burns' cameo at his eighth birthday party, his first day working for him at age seventeen, the day he began interning for him, the day he realized he was hopelessly in love with him, the day he got promoted to full-time employment, each Christmas and Thanksgiving they shared, the thousands of dinners, drinks, movies, laughs, arguments, conventions, vacations, work lunches, golf games, court days, car rides, birthdays, yacht trips, jet rides, money fights, and...one glorious night of dancing on the ballroom floor at _Le Petit Fromage_.

He awoke to an alarming sound emitted by the life support monitor and scrambled out of the bed, terrified he had dislodged an important tube. Smithers watched him take his final, agonal breaths, his eyes going slack as his breathing stayed. Nurses crowded around, but they didn't do much but look to each other and nod. "Do something!" he said, flustered at their lack of action. "Help him!"

"There's nothing more we can do."

"No! There has to be – anything!" The nurses shook their heads, "no." "This can't be the end..." But even before the words fled his mouth, he knew it was true. Mr. Burns was truly dead and would never again awaken. "Why did you have to leave so soon?" He pressed his nose and glasses into his chest, weeping and wrapping his arms around him as tightly as possible, more tightly than he ever would have considered in life. "Why...why couldn't we have just one more year together? A month? A day? A damn day, that's all I ask for!" He kissed Burns' lips, but rather than feeling the pleasure he had gotten from all other contact with him, he felt only the emptiness of knowing that Mr. Burns wasn't feeling or responding to his affection. "You can't leave me yet..."


	7. Chapter 7

Still Monty

It had been a few days since the funeral, and he was already drunk by 7 a.m. Being back in his own apartment only highlighted his separation from Mr. Burns and drove him to despair. He had been charged with delivering the eulogy – or rather, he'd charged himself with that duty, as he knew that no one could do it better. He spent most of the time rhapsodizing about Mr. Burns and giving a brief history of the amazing things he'd accomplished during his time on planet Earth. Although those in attendance largely hated Mr. Burns and only came because they worked for the plant and Smithers mandated their attendance, he could tell that even they were deeply moved and perhaps just that once, they could see Mr. Burns the way he saw him. _Just another week_ , he told himself, _and I'll be ready to face this sober. Until then..._ He downed another shot of whiskey.

The doorbell rang, and Smithers yelled, "Come back later!"

"Certified letter for Waylon Smithers," replied the mail carrier outside.

"I'll get it at the post office later," he said, throwing a shot glass at the door. "Now go away!"

"It says it's from the lawyers of Charles Montgomery Burns."

His eyes widened and he staggered to the entrance, stumbling over his shoes on the way and then stepping on a shard of glass. He swiftly opened the door.

Taking a look at Smithers' disheveled hair, lopsided shirt buttoning, and haggard visage, he said, "I thought you would want to see it."

"Give it to me," he said, taking the certified letter and slamming the door shut. His normally courteous demeanor fell rapidly to the wayside in the midst of drunkenness and depression. He took the letter with him to the couch, paying no mind to the fact the glass shards in his toe were getting more deeply embedded with each step or the fact his blood was seeping in little spots into the carpet. He handled it gingerly and gradually opened it with a letter opener, treating it as if it were a piece of sacred parchment.

The contents were twofold. One was a formal legal letter with the familiar letterhead of Mr. Burns' lawyers. The other, far more intriguing document was written unmistakably in Mr. Burns' own hand, with his own quill pen. He read this one first, his hands trembling as if Mr. Burns had risen from the dead to speak with him in his living room.

 _My dear -S-m-i-t-h-e-r-s-_ _Waylon Smithers: I am sorry I led you to believe I cut you out of my will. I needed to be certain you loved me for who I am and not for my money. That is why I planted that fake will in my office safe – I knew your curiosity would prompt you to seek it out, and I needed to know how you would respond to your exclusion. Once it became clear that you were satisfied with earning my respect and were not preoccupied with my assets, I had my real will drawn up. And so I bequeath to you my mansion, the hounds, and two hundred million dollars, in addition to full ownership of the plant, to thank you for your years of service to me and to ease the pain of my absence. Use it well, old friend._

The legal letter laid out the specifics of his inheritance, but his eyes glossed over it and returned to Mr. Burns' letter, reading and rereading it for hours.

* * *

Weeks after learning of his inheritance, Smithers had not changed much about his lifestyle. He had moved the remainder of his personal affects into Mr. Burns' – his – mansion, and he had bought every single Malibu Stacy doll or accessory he didn't already own, but not much else had changed. Certainly, the hollow emptiness hadn't left him, for not even millions of dollars could fill that void. He had thought being away from the mansion made him feel the sting of Burns' absence, but he was wrong – staying there meant he couldn't put thoughts of Mr. Burns aside for even a second, and he felt more lonely than ever.

He gave generous donations to the children's hospital and to a gay rights organization in an attempt to boost his spirits, but while he was glad to have supported worthy causes, it did nothing to ease the pain of his loss.

He went to a bar for the first time in months, as he had been so devoted to Mr. Burns during the end of his life and in the aftermath had no desire to be around people while drinking himself into oblivion. It was a nice little gayborhood bar called Chuck's, a relatively new establishment in Springfield that had risen up to fill the niche Mo's had filled while in operation. Stuart greeted him and took a seat on a bar stool beside him. "Hey, Waylon. How is life as a millionaire?"

"About the same as before," he said, barely glancing at him. "I'll have a scotch and water," he said to the bartender.

"You really loved him, didn't you?"

"Still love him. More than I could ever express."

"At least he lived a good, long life. And he had you," he said, sipping from his glass of Merlot. "He was lucky to have you." The bartender handed Smithers his drink. "And he knew it. Rich misers don't give millions of dollars to people who are 'just' servants. You obviously meant more to him than that."

"That's true. On his deathbed, he told me he loved me...as much as he could." He drank from his scotch and water. "Know what his last words were? 'I'm afraid.' God, he broke my heart. All I could do was hold him and tell him I was there for him, and he...in my arms..." His eyes watered again. "He wants me to enjoy his money, but I don't know how I can. Money can buy a lot of things, but it can't buy me Monty." He finished his drink. "I'm sorry, I need to go to the bathroom. I have something in my eye!"

"I understand."

Smithers ran off to the men's room, swinging the door open and hastily making his way to a stall where he curled up on the toilet seat and cried as he had when he was a boy retreating from the bullies. "Money can't buy me happiness..."

"What codswallop!"

He looked up and saw a vision of Mr. Burns. "Mr. Burns! I know you're just a specter of my addled mind, but it's such a joy to see you!"

"What is the meaning of this overwrought blathering? Of course money can buy you happiness! That's why I gave you some."

"But I don't know how to be happy without you."

"Well, you'd better figure that out soon. I would be supremely disappointed in you if you pissed away your share of my fortune on booze." His voice softened. "I want you to be happy, Waylon. Because you made me happy."

Smithers sniffled. Although he knew this dialogue was the product of his mind, he also knew that this wasn't wishful thinking. This was how Mr. Burns had really felt about him.

"I'll leave you now to sort out your own affairs. Think of it as the final task of your employment: find happiness."

"I'll do my best, sir."

After he'd wiped the tears from his eyes and regained his composure, he sat back at the bar next to Stuart, who gave him a concerned look and said, "Are you going to be okay, Waylon?"

"Yeah, fine. I'll be fine." He forced his lips into a meager smile.

A man, taller than him by a couple inches with hair a bit more gray and balding than his, approached Smithers from the other side of the bar, taking his Martini with him. "I couldn't help but hear," he said in a sensitive yet firm voice, "about your lover."

"Oh..." Smithers looked down into his drink. "He wasn't my lover. I wanted nothing more than for him to be, though. Oh..." He looked at the man's drink. "Mr. Burns was partial to Martinis."

"He had good taste," he said, taking a sip. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss," he said, placing a consoling hand on the back of Smithers'. "What's your name?"

"Smithers. Waylon Smithers."

He turned to the bartender. "Get my man Waylon a Manhattan." Looking back to Smithers, he said, "Hi. I'm Jake. Jake Winters." They shook hands. "I would say I know what you're going through, but I know how irritating it is to hear that when you're grieving. You see, I lost my husband last year."

"I'm so sorry."

"We just got married last spring, but we'd been together twenty years, so we were effectively married already. After he died, I moved here to Springfield to start over."

"Monty and I were together for twenty-five. As employer and employee, as friends, not lovers, but still. That was as far as we got." The bartender gave him his Manhattan. "Good Lord! You don't want to talk to me; that's sick I would even think that."

"Think what?"

"I'm actually envious of you because your love loved you back."

"That's not sick. That's human."

Smithers sipped from his Manhattan. "I see you're still wearing your ring."

"Richard will always be near and dear to my heart."

"You don't want to move on, do you?"

"It's not that I don't want to. I'm just not ready yet."

"I know what you mean," said Smithers, staring into his drink. "I don't think I'll ever be ready to move on."

"How long has it been since he died?"

"Three weeks. And two days. And sixteen hours."

"Of course you aren't ready to move on. When you're ready, you'll know."

"I knew this day would come – hell, for the last two decades, I knew he could've gone at any time – but that doesn't make it any easier."

"He was ill for that long?"

"Not per se. Please don't think I'm a freak, but he's quite a bit older than I am."

"How much?"

"Sixty years."

"How old are you? You can't be younger than thirty-five – no offense."

"None taken. I'm forty-four."

"I don't know why you think I'd think you're a freak. Fifteen years is not such a massive age gap."

"No...I mean, sixty years older than me."

"That _is_ a massive age gap."

"I told you."

He sipped from his Martini. "I don't think you're a freak."

"Really? You don't think I'm a freak for being attracted to a 104-year-old man?" _He was so close to his 105th birthday._

"Unusual, yes. But not a freak." Smithers opened up his wallet and stroked a photo of Mr. Burns with the tips of his middle and index fingers. "Is that him?"

"Yes. Most people see him as cruel and heartless, but there was more to him than that. He had a lovely soul, and I wish more people could have seen it."

He noticed that his hand was still on Smithers' and caressed him. "I don't know you well, but I can tell right now that you're a special person."

"What makes you say that?"

"You have a gift for seeing the good in people. You have unique taste in men, and I think that means there's something unique about you. You were clearly devoted to him, and you have a highly – perhaps too highly – tuned moral sense to feel guilty about envying me."

"You're really perceptive. You can tell all that from our brief conversation?"

"No. You were the one telling me all that in so few words."

Smithers noticed Jake's hand was still on his and started to withdraw but decided against it and settled his hand back down against the bar counter, as Jake's solicitous touch soothed him. "I'm not ready yet," he said, taking another sip of his Manhattan.

"We don't need to do anything," he said, lowering his eyes not out of lewd desire but out of shy compassion. "I'm not looking to score tonight. But I do want to get to know you better."

Smithers smiled. "Here," he said, pulling a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket. "Let me buy you a drink."


End file.
